


Blood Rush

by Gutstring



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Brief mention of Cannibalism, Dark Humor, Drugging, M/M, Obsessiveness, Victim Blaming, Vivisection, honestly just an experiment with this character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:39:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gutstring/pseuds/Gutstring
Summary: Joker lives out a fantasy.





	1. Antici-

**Author's Note:**

> Joker says some no-good victim-blaming things in regards to someone getting drugged. It doesn't represent what I think, and I wanted to let anyone know just in case it was a trigger. The second half of this story will contain a graphic depiction of a vivisection so uhh...heed that warning. I'll have that posted soon.

It was a smoldering summer night when Joker picked up his new project. It was the kind that made the city’s smog seem that much denser, and the world tense enough that it was on the precipice of popping. He loved nights like these; loved the way his body would be drenched in so much sweat that his suit would cling and his hair would curl, loved how his fellow Gothamites would rave about how wonderful the warm weather was and how they needed to get beach body ready as the murder rate skyrocketed, loved how everything felt alive in a frenzied and tortured sort of way. It felt like the city was reaching out to him with open arms, accepting him as the towering and inseparable ruling spirit that it knew he was, the proverbial monster under the concrete bed. Gotham knew his place in its heart, just as he knew Gotham’s place in his. It was, after all, always on his mind, with everything he did and everything he was. 

Gotham, and his Batman, who tonight was about. It had been weeks since they saw each other last, which inevitably sparked yearning in Joker, but he had to clamp it down because he couldn’t trust himself not to delicately and lovingly skin every bit of flesh off Batman’s body if he sought him out now. Everything always needed to be perfect between them in order to maintain the only important cosmic balance in the universe, and Joker knew he wouldn’t be able to deliver as he was. It was something that needed to be squared as soon as possible. It was intolerably annoying, as he had something magnificent planned out, something that he knew would thrill Batsy like he hadn’t been thrilled in awhile, in a way Joker knew only he could. It was some more gasoline to pour on the towering and eternal inferno that was their relationship. But no, instead the last few weeks Joker had been a mutt feasting on scraps, little nondescript murders here and there that didn’t mean anything but a releasing of restlessness, rage, and boredom. They all just did chip damage at the need, though; nothing would ever match a performance with and for Batsy. 

See, Bats was irresistible in every possible facet of the word, and in a way Joker knew only he and Bats had the capacity to feel and be. However, this irresistibility was why Joker had to stay away. This particular fantasy would be too much for even Bats to take - a thought that brought knee-jerk denial and seething resentment because they should be able to take everything and anything they throw at each other, but Joker was willing to acknowledge reality and forgive, if it was for Batman - and he didn’t want to do something that he would later feel a certain way about. 

Hence, the 6’2” beefcake currently knocked out in the back of his purple 2005 PT Cruiser with wood paneling. The PT Cruiser he couldn’t resist stealing it, both for the novelty of it and for the hilarity of using a PT Cruiser as your murder-mobile. He could also use it as a hearse after he’s done with the corpse, which also had its comedic appeal, but that joke was a little too close to the first one to have the effect he usually goes for. To compound that fact, there was going to be a perfectly good Gotham River right there near the kill site. He’d honestly be doing the guy a favor by giving him company in the afterlife, what with all the other flesh suits that have been dumped like the trash they are over the years into the river. He decided on the latter disposal solution out of the kindness of his heart and also because he wanted to keep the Cruiser and he didn’t bring plastic bags with him to protect the trunk’s interior. 

Joker’s riverside apartment wasn’t far from the bar that he picked up his new companion. It was a gay bar in the Upper East Side called “Matchstick”, which Joker thought was tempting fate in a city like Gotham. He had spent about an hour on his Jack Napier costume; taking off his bubblegum pink acrylic nails (that he had just done, but it’s fine) in favor of trimmed white, applying foundation four shades too dark so his bleached skin looked like it actually contained melanin, and dying his hair dirty blonde using temporary dye. By the end of it, he looked like someone who was completely not him: someone completely and totally unremarkable. Joker had sneered in the mirror, as he did every time he had to dress like this; how completely and totally disgusting. Alas, sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. 

The bar actually hadn’t been his first stop. He tried various places that were popular with the locals; coffee shops, parks, museums, et cetera, with no luck of finding someone who fit the bill. It was only the last ditch effort at Matchstick that he finally found the one. Amidst the red glow, fake fog from a machine in the corner, and all the pretentious party-glam you’d expect from a bar targeting yuppies on the Upper East Side, there he was: tall, strong jawline, full lips, in such fantastic shape he must spend three hours at the gym, five days a week. At least Bats had an excuse; this guy had no apparent reason for looking like he could be apart of a steroid advertisement on a black market TV channel, if such a thing existed. Maybe he understood something a lot of Gothamites ostensibly didn’t in that being able to defend yourself using just your body is valuable when you live in a city with such a high murder per capita rate. Maybe he liked that he could crush skulls with his thighs. Joker understood the appeal of that. He hoped it was the first reason, because then there was a joke to be made that he hoped the guy would find to be a real knee-slapper. Men seem to have the idea that they’d never get roofied - especially a man like this, who’s so big and powerful - so they feel comfortable coming to bars alone and getting hammered. Talk about idiocy. The irony was hilarious, though. 

The actual fishing was laughably and boringly easy. He knew it was partially because of his natural charm and charisma allowed him to make the guy comfortable enough to be around Joker without Joker even remembering his name, but he begrudgingly admitted to himself it was also because oh-fortuitous fate decided that the guy would come alone and would be already crushing the drunk-o-meter before Joker even entered the place. It made slipping the Rohypnol in his thousandth drink unnoticed a lot easier. He watched as he got slowly and slowly more out of it, and Joker laughed when they guy lost his footing and he proclaimed to no one in particular, “Well, better get this big lug home!” 

Through the power of toxic masculinity and/or the bystander effect, no one stopped him from hauling a largely unconscious body through the bar, nor through the parking lot, and he made sure no one saw him when he origami-stuffed the body in the trunk but he has some confidence that some people wouldn’t have cared even then. The guy had moaned softly when Joker was doing this, and he had patted his head and said, “I know.” empathetically. 

All of which brought him to driving on the long stretch of road that brought him to The Hill. This was a neighborhood that he couldn’t even attribute the bystander effect as to why people ignored the body, as it was rather they were usually carrying a body of their own in some way or another, whether it be like Joker was, or in a suitcase, or a trash bag. The apartment complex was known throughout the neighborhood as his, but was largely abandoned due to it being in such a dire state of dilapidation, only really getting use when Joker wanted a private space to conduct projects like this, or when one of his goons needed a place to lay their little precious heads for the night. He parked the car in front of his apartment complex and hauled the body out of the trunk to begin the ascent to the fifth floor. The guy was completely unconscious by this point, which was disappointing for Joker, as that meant he now had to wait for him to wake up. The only person he even saw was one of his own goons, who started to advance on him immediately but stopped in his tracks when Joker flashed a smile. It was comforting to know that, even in disguise, his signature was unmistakable. 

He finally got into his apartment and put the body down on the table in the living room. It was a large one with flowers etched into the corners that must have, at one point, housed the mealtime of some lovely parents and their lovely brats. The contrast between that image and what he was going to do on this table made him bark out in laughter. Moonlight was pouring in through a hole in the ceiling, casting a glow on the soon-to-be-corpse, something Joker did purposefully by positioning the table just-so for the drama of it all. He began tying the body’s hands and feet to the tables legs, then pushed him around forcefully to see if they would stay put. He then got out his crowning jewel: the replica Batman mask he usually kept at his main base. It wasn’t one of those cheap ones you could buy at any supermarket or chain store, no, it was one he had custom-made out of authentic material. He carefully placed it on the head, and stepped back to observe for accuracy. The jawline wasn’t quite square enough, but the lips were almost perfect, and that sent a surge of pleasure through the Joker that just ramped up his anticipation. It was a waiting game now, until the roofies wore off. He sat on the couch in the corner of the room, watching the steady rise and fall of his project’s chest. He was able to do this for a minute until his impatience rose to intolerable levels and he sprung up from the couch to slap the guy’s cheeks, trying to see if that would cause him to stir. When that didn’t work, he collapsed on the couch again, wishing that he would’ve thought to bring smelling salts along to accelerate the process. All the stillness did was remind him that he hadn’t slept in a few days, and he hated being reminded of his body’s necessity for sleep, so he turned to thinking about what he had planned to keep him awake. 

Joker doesn’t remember when the idea to do this first came to him. It felt primordial and instinctual, but he would’ve done this earlier if it was something that has been with him over a long period of time. He thought it may have been when he had tried to take down the Trigate Bridge but Bats found the explosives before they had even gone off and they had fought. Bats had him on the ground, straddling him to keep him secured. Joker had gotten between Kevlar plates with a switchblade and into the vulnerable body underneath. He had heard Batman hiss upon the impact, and something about that sound and his expression made Joker plunge his fingers right where he had stabbed. He felt the Bat’s flesh and blood, and he had scissored his fingers to feel the tissue expanding and contracting with both his and Bat’s movements. Bats put a stop to this real quick, but Joker never forgot about that sensation of his fingers in that warmth. He knew that he jacked off to it that very night in his Arkham cell, but the full-on fantasy must have came later. 

He couldn’t wait to finally get this out of his system.


	2. -pation

The suspense was killing him. He had half the mind to just begin, to not wait for this drunk and roofied hulk of a man to regain consciousness, but he decided against it in the end. He needed eyes looking at him, a body writhing below him, and a mouth trying their best to hold back muffled sounds of agony. This whole thing was going to be a delicate balance of authenticity and fulfilled dreams. On the authenticity side, a corpse-like simulation would be even more inaccurate than one that felt nothing but terror. He needed some sensory phenomenon in the real world that would match with the experience, even if he knew it wouldn’t be quite the same as Bats. Part of him resented this fact, but on the fulfilled dreams side, getting his simulated Batman to finally scream for him would be glorious. When Joker was planning this in his head, he originally thought of trying to do a more elaborate roleplay, get some person to whisper sweet nothings to him as Batman to really adding a new dimension to the experience. However, he knew that other people would do nothing but disappoint on that front. It would be too inauthentic to feed lines, and no one was actually Bats, after all. Joker made concessions where he had to for the sake of his fantasy. 

He looked over at the body, feeling that dreaded sense of desperation starting to slip in. The fantasy’s constant presence over the last few weeks had been eroding him from the inside. Everything else just felt like it paled in comparison to the what was alive and demanding inside his own imagination. He now felt as though you could drop a coin inside of him and hear an echo. He knew this was the price of being who he was - of having the capacity to feel beyond what any normal person could feel - but in moments like these it made him want to skin himself alive. Where was the stimulation? The intensity? The love? How was he expected to exist with all of this inside him and nothing inside him all at once? 

Joker was jolted out of his thoughts when finally, finally, finally, he heard a groan, prompting him to leap up from the couch and bolt over to the man. He propped his elbows on the table and looked down, beaming, mood instantly transformed. 

“Good morning, starshine!” he singsonged, caressing the side of the man’s face with the back of his knuckles. 

The man tried to jerk away from Joker’s touch, but his movements were sluggish, weak, helpless. Joker had taken extra care to tie his restraints to hold someone this powerful looking down, but it seemed the roofies combined with the alcohol made the guy lethargic enough that he didn’t have to worry. 

“S-stay away from me,” he stammered, trying to gain muscle control but failing miserably. 

“I am unfortunately going to be doing literally the exact opposite, in ways beyond your most vivid and wild dreams.” 

The man looked confused and frightened at this, and rightfully so. He seemed to let it go for the sake of begging. 

“Please just let me go, I have childr--”

Joker swiftly yanked his pink pocket handkerchief out and shoved it in the guy’s mouth, scowling. “Don’t be boring. I don’t care about your children, nobody who has ever been in this situation has cared about the children. I need you alive and awake for the full effect, but I certainly don’t need any of that.”

The guy looked bewildered in response to that, like he couldn’t believe the monstrosity, and Joker had to wonder how people maintained such a little lamb mentality in his Gotham. He revised his original theory: this guy must be buff simply because he likes the aesthetic of it. There’s no way he thought he’d ever been in any real danger. He should’ve known, what with the socioeconomic status of the bar’s targeted demographic. Rich people! 

He tsked and pointed an accusatory finger, like you would with a dog. “Look what you made me do, I have a perfectly good gag in my bag and you made me use my handkerchief!” 

Joker got over it quickly. “Suppose it’ll have to do!” 

He learned forward even closer, his breath coating the man’s masked face. He spoke in a hushed whisper. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. Do you understand? Nod if we’re communicating.” 

The man nodded. 

“Fantastic! I just have one little request from you. Nothing too major, but it is very important, for both your sake and mine.” 

Joker held the man’s face in both his hands. “I’m going to be putting your body under major duress and your first instinct is going to be scream. For my sake, -” he gestured towards himself, “I need you to be as quiet as possible. I’ll even make it easier on you by keeping the gag in! Isn’t that nice?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t let me hear your pain. If you do, I’ll make it hurt so much worse, ‘kay?” 

The man looked scared out of his wits, but nodded again. It was enough for Joker. The forced quietness would add a much-needed element of authenticity, as he knew his Bat wouldn’t let Joker know what he was doing got to him, even if it was exceptionally obvious it Instead, he’d use silence as a defiance, maintaining some power over the situation when all Joker wanted was to hear him scream, just as much as he wanted to hear him laugh. He also knew that the vessel wouldn’t be able to keep it up because of what he was going to do to him, and that would fulfill his dream, too. He let out a sigh of contentment. 

He quickly retrieved his kit from the kitchen. They were tools he typically used for torture and interrogation, but tonight was different. He was giddy with excitement as he extracted the scalpel from its sleeve, admiring the way it shined in the moonlight. 

Now, for the mental superimposition. Joker trusted his and Bats’ connection enough that, with the help of the mask and a fitting vessel, he knew he could accomplish this. He knew he could get what he truly wanted. He closed his eyes, framing the replica Batman mask as the last thing he saw before the blackness behind his eyelids. He reached down inside himself, summoning the essence of the Bat that existed as lively and as poignantly inside Joker as it existed within Batman himself. The sound of wings fluttering roared in his ears and caressed his skin, and he could smell that dark and heavy musk, see that imposing figure, feel the rock hardness of that body. His heart started beating fast and in cadence with the fluttering of the wings - a grand synchronicity, the musical performance dominating the theater - and he poured all of it into the vessel in front of him. When he opened his eyes, it didn’t just feel like some rando any longer, but also his Bats. Below all that skin was Batman’s guts, Batman’s lungs, Batman’s heart. He felt a simultaneous wave of pleasure and terror and let out a breathless cackle; the mind was a remarkable thing. 

He got up on the table and straddled Bats. The moment before the first cut was like the sweltering heat outside; it hummed and hissed in a cacophony of energy, growing louder and louder as Joker brought the scalpel closer to the man’s chest, reaching a crescendo as he finally sliced the flesh beneath. The energy transference was immediate, with the tenseness of the Joker’s shoulders relaxing and instead building with something that made him glow technicolor. It was so beautiful and electrifying, filling up any crevice of him with mania and alertness. Bats, predictably but still endearingly, was staring right at him, with that classic combination of rage, tenacity, and well-hidden-but-for-Joker’s-eyes-only fear. Joker couldn’t wait till he got to his heart. He sliced into the body deeper, and that got a pained exhale from behind the gag, and then deeper, which led to a hiss, then deeper still, which led to a cry. He adored the little sounds being made, and the idea of the last one being made by a Batman pushed towards the edge made everything that much more enrapturing. He started pushing down with the scalpel as deep and as forcefully as a pathologist would performing an autopsy, and in the same ‘Y’-shaped pattern. The vessel screamed now, tears streaming down his face, and Joker just wanted the lick them up and taste nothing else for the rest of his life. He started quickly swiping away at the skin on the side, expanding the wound, and that’s when the telltale signs of shock set it. The realization disgusted Joker; shock ruined part of the fun, and though part of his brain was aware of the irrationality of this, he’s convinced Bats would’ve lasted longer. He didn’t like that it broke the fantasy somewhat. At least he could still hear these cute little mewling sounds. His mood only dipped temporarily, particularly when he really took the time to gaze at what was now available to him. 

The internal cavity was now exposed. He found a pair of robust and clean looking lungs (not a smoker, how healthy!), along with a still beating heart. Joker looked at the heart the same way a Catholic looks at God: divine love and divine terror intermingled together into a ruling conglomerate of the soul. He took off his gloves, reached under the rib cage, and ruthlessly plunged his hand in, ripping the heart out. It still beat in his hand for several minutes after extraction. He laughed at the pointlessness and desperation of that, and then at the near irresistible urge he had to eat it as fast as he could, like someone would steal it away from him. He placed it among the rest of the colorful viscera spread around the cavity. The vividness of it all was impossible to resist; Joker submerged both his hands, contracting them into fists, and then into cradles, and then into fists once more. 

The intimacy of being this close to Batman made him want to weep. He was so glad he got to share this with him. He sunk his forearms into the cavity and placed his head down, rubbing and feeling the unique texture of the viscera on his cheeks, forehead, hair. His suit was ruined, but he didn’t care; he wanted to keep it as a memento for this night. He stayed there quietly for an undetermined amount of time, feeling the warmth, thinking about all the love he had in his heart and how much he wished he could stay inside Batsy forever. 

The energy and intensity pumping his veins full with thrill started dissipating, and Joker was covered in blood and gore. He breathed steadily for the first time he had in weeks. The ruling spirit of Gotham found its satisfaction, the night outside had cooled down. He felt the sort of bone-deep exhaustion you feel after a good fucking. It was that thought that made him realize his own hardness, and he laughed at knowing what he was going to do next to be close to the only man that matters. 

When the end finally came for the both of them, he knew that this fantasy could eventually became a reality with the real Batman, but for now, this would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.


End file.
